Anywhere You Go (I'll Follow You Down)
by YourFairyGodfather
Summary: Runner!Klaine series from Tumblr: Kurt is running his very first marathon for Reasons (and they're really good ones. Probably). Blaine is a marathon junkie with a total disregard for how good looking he is at seven in the morning (or in spandex pants). It's a good thing they're made for each other, because there are 26 more miles to the finish line.
1. I Know We're Headed Somewhere

Previously published on Tumblr, this is the 3 part saga of runner!Klaine, most notable in that it was written before the Boston Marathon this year (unlike the epilogue, which is about to follow).

Love you, love you.

* * *

Taking another sip of water and twisting the cap back onto the bottle, Kurt suppressed a yawn. Despite the nervous energy and excitement (and no small amount of dread) that was coursing through his system, 6:30 a.m. was still 6:30 a.m., and the small cup of coffee he'd sluggishly gulped down when his alarm had gone off two hours before wasn't doing much to wake him up.

Shivering as a chilly draft of air blew in through the open gymnasium doors, Kurt leaned over to pick up his duffel bag and moved further into the building, where the room was warmer. The temperature outside had been an unholy twenty-seven degrees when he'd left the house, according to the generally accurate gauge in the dashboard of his Navigator, and Kurt was stubbornly clinging to the hope that sunrise would burn off the frosty edge of the wind.

_Sunrise. _Because running 26.2 miles—a distance clearly better suited to driving or avoiding entirely—in a single day wasn't crazy enough; it had to begin at the crack of dawn.

Typical.

Dropping his bag onto an empty patch of floor, Kurt smoothed the race number pinned to his shirt absently, looking around the large gymnasium at all the other potentially (probably) insane people awaiting the 7:30 start time. The room was packed with runners: tall runners, short runners, some with necks thicker than Kurt's entire body, others so impossibly waifish it was a miracle they were standing.

Nearly all of them were clad in dangerously eye-smarting combinations of spandex, which was making Kurt's soul hurt just enough to keep him awake, at least.

Some were waiting by themselves, like Kurt, but most seemed to be in pairs or small groups, talking and stretching and laughing and waiting in the ridiculously long line for the bathrooms and—

Kurt paused, then took a second look at the curly-haired boy standing several feet in front of him.

The curly-haired boy, who had lifted his hideously orange shirt up to expose his toned stomach, and was happily slathering deodorant along the tanned skin above his running tights.

Huh.

Not sure if he was more mildly weirded out or curious, Kurt stared in fascination as the boy twisted in place, smearing his lower back with the deodorant stick as well. Apparently finished, he dropped the hem of his shirt and stuck the cap back on—and looked up, where he caught Kurt's gaze.

And smiled.

Embarrassed at being caught, Kurt smiled back reflexively and quickly looked away, taking another drink of water to make it look as if he hadn't been watching on purpose.

But not before noticing how ridiculously gorgeous the other boy was—way more attractive than was fair or necessary before 7a.m.—and how his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

It was really a shame that he had a weird deodorant fetish or something.

Fortunately—or maybe unfortunately—Kurt felt a tap on his shoulder, and a voice interrupted his train of thought before he could follow it to any twisted conclusions:

"Would you like some lubricant?"

Kurt spat out his water.

Coughing, he turned to see the boy in the orange shirt standing next to him, holding his deodorant stick and looking at Kurt's red face with concern. "…Excuse me?" he managed to choke out, taking another sip from his water bottle to clear the burning in his throat.

The boy's furrowed expression disappeared at the question—he apparently having decided that Kurt was fine—and was replaced with a sweetly open smile. "I saw you watching me before, and I thought maybe you needed some BodyGlide, to help keep your clothes from rubbing your skin during the race," he elaborated, wiggling the tube in his hand. "This one's brand new," he assured Kurt, "I bought it at the expo yesterday in case I ran out, but I haven't used it yet. In case you were worried about my germs or something."

His eyes were sparkling beautifully, and Kurt swallowed. "I wasn't," he replied, the tremor in his voice only slightly noticeable.

And if the boy did notice, he was nice enough not to mention it. "Can I get the back of your neck for you?" he offered instead, tilting his head almost shyly. "If there's a tag in your shirt, it might start to bother you after a while."

Kurt glanced around the room. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to them, so it was unlikely that he was the unfortunate subject of a prank or an episode of Punk'd. The offer, if strange, at least seemed to be in earnest, and the boy probably wouldn't have rubbed the salve all over himself without a good reason—and honestly, after living in New York for over a year, it was hardly the most bizarre thing that someone had offered to do for him.

Plus, the more Kurt looked at him, the more obvious it became that underneath all the earnest charm and semi-inappropriate questions and off-putting clothing choices? The boy was _really_ cute.

Also, toned, tanned abs.

Kurt smiled back. "Yeah, okay," he agreed. "A bit weird, but I guess you'd hardly ask me to 'put the lotion in the basket' in front of this many potential witnesses."

As soon as the words flew out of his mouth, Kurt regretted them, and he cringed inwardly at his complete social awkwardness in the face of attractive guys around his age. Surprisingly, though, the boy's eyes crinkled again as he let out a delighted laugh.

"I would never," he promised, uncapping the tube and stepping closer to Kurt. "Can you imagine trying to drag a hose through this crowd? Impossible."

His fingers trailed lightly down the back of Kurt's neck as he gently pulled the collar of his t-shirt down, and their unexpected warmth as they lingered on his skin made Kurt's stomach twist pleasantly.

He swallowed again as Blaine rubbed the balm into his neck. "Saved by the power of logistics," he quipped breathlessly, making the boy laugh again. "Unless you're lying about what's in that container, and your real diabolical plan is to make innocent young men look stupid by rubbing deodorant all over them."

The boy smoothed Kurt's shirt back into place with both hands. "You caught me," he admitted, grinning at Kurt. "I got stuck wearing an orange shirt with pink sneakers, and now I'm bent on making everyone suffer with me."

He held out his hand. "I'm Blaine, by the way," he added, eyelashes fluttering slightly as he gazed at Kurt. "I probably should have introduced myself before touching you, but my manners are terrible at the crack of dawn, I guess."

Kurt took Blaine's warm hand in his own. "I thought you were doing fine," he offered kindly, smiling inwardly at Blaine's suddenly bashful expression. "I'm Kurt."

Blaine squeezed his hand. "Nice to meet you, Kurt," he replied, leaning forward into their handshake. "And in all seriousness, the balm is a good idea. You would think that your clothes would be the least of your worries out on the course, but some of the places they end up rubbing…"

He shuddered, gesturing meaningfully at his chest, and Kurt felt his face flush as his eyes involuntarily followed Blaine's hand. Blaine's shirt was thin and tight, showing off his compact muscles and leaving little to the imagination—including the slight outlines of two strategically placed band-aids. "Uh, yeah," Kurt admitted, cheeks flaming. "That may have come up during one of our training sessions. Not, like, _personally,"_ he clarified hastily, as Blaine's expression grew sympathetic,_ "_but Coach Beiste was fairly graphic in her warnings."

Which was the understatement of the year. "_Bleeding like a stuck pig_" was an expression that Kurt could happily go the rest of his life without ever hearing again, particularly from anyone who was also eating a pulled pork sandwich at the time, as Coach Beiste had been doing.

"I did notice that you were running with a charity team," Blaine acknowledged, nodding at the sky blue singlet that Kurt was wearing over his t-shirt. "That's really awesome, Kurt. How did you get started with them?"

Kurt rubbed a hand over the singlet, absentmindedly straightening the wrinkles that had formed when Blaine had pulled his collar out of place. "My dad was diagnosed with cancer last year," he explained, letting his gaze fall to the floor briefly before looking back up at Blaine. "He's fine now," he added quickly, seeing Blaine's sudden look of dismay, "he had a great doctor and he's in remission. But I wanted to do something to show my support, and after spending my last ten years of public school running away from bullies, this was something I knew I was good at, at least." Kurt shrugged, rolling his eyes self-deprecatingly.

For a moment, Blaine looked torn between concern and amusement, but his smile won out. "Your dad must be really proud of you," he offered, tilting his head slightly to meet Kurt's eyes. "Are you running with some of your teammates, then?"

Kurt made a face. "No, they're all running a different race in New Jersey in two weeks," he sighed. "I was supposed to do that one as well, but I go to school in New York, and my department scheduled our big semester Showcase for that weekend, so I had to scramble to find a different marathon. This one turned out to be perfect, since I was planning on coming home this weekend anyway. My dad and stepmom are coming later this morning, to see me cross the finish line."

Blaine's face had lit up halfway through Kurt's explanation. "I live in New York too!" he told Kurt, practically bouncing in place. "I'm at Steinhart, at NYU. Hey, maybe we've passed each other while training—do you ever run in Central Park?"

Kurt couldn't help but grin at Blaine's enthusiasm—and wasn't entirely unmoved by the New York connection, either. "Sometimes," he replied, biting his lip just a _little _flirtatiously. "I usually spend most of those days trying not to trip over tourists and dogs, though."

Blaine laughed. "That sounds about right," he agreed. "I got tangled up in one of those cord leashes once, the almost invisible ones? I'm pretty sure I did a full somersault in the air before I landed right on my butt on the pavement. And then the dog tried to eat my shoe."

He shuddered dramatically. Kurt laughed, and Blaine smiled sweetly at him again. "So you're running by yourself today?" he asked, running a hand through his dark, curly hair.

Kurt nodded. "Unfortunately," he lamented. "This is my first marathon, so I was hoping to run with at least one other person that I know."

Blaine nodded back. "That does suck," he agreed sagely. "But there are going to be hundreds of people out on the road for hours, and headphones are banned. Trust me, you're going to have _so_ many people to talk to.

"And for what it's worth," Blaine continued, his voice kind and reassuring, "this is a great course for beginners—there are a few hills toward the beginning, but the last ten miles are almost completely flat."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "So just get through the first sixteen and I'll be fine, then?" he quipped dryly.

Blaine grinned in response. "Absolutely," he confirmed. "But I mean it; I run this race every year, and it's my favorite one. You'll be great—just run at your own pace, and try to suppress any murderous instincts that come up after five or six spectators wave their cowbells in your ear."

Kurt bit back his laughter. "I didn't realize spontaneous homicide was a potential side effect of distance running," he remarked, deliberately keeping a straight face. "Someone forgot to list that one on the waiver."

Blaine's eyes were warm with amusement. "How negligent of them," he agreed.

His gaze flickered briefly down to Kurt's mouth.

Kurt swallowed, feeling warmer than he had all morning.

"Seriously, though," he said softly, lacing his fingers behind his back and pushing down the sudden urge to run them through Blaine's hair, "thank you for the pep talk. And the advice. A few of us on the team finished our 20 mile long run in about three hours and fifteen minutes, and it felt surprisingly non-fatal, so I thought maybe I'd try to find the 4:30 pace group and stick with them."

Blaine folded his arms, rubbing absently at his bicep. "_Re_ally," he commented slowly, his smile taking on a mysterious—and if Kurt was being honest, hopelessly sexy—quality.

"I tried to find the booth to sign up yesterday," Kurt confirmed, wondering what it was that he'd said to garner such a reaction. "I couldn't find it, though, and I'd promised Dad my help out in the shop for a few hours in the afternoon, so I couldn't stick around." He tilted his head, matching Blaine's interested look with one of his own. "What about you?" he wanted to know. "You must be pretty fast, if you've done so many marathons. Are you running with anyone?"

Blaine's eyelashes fluttered again as he looked bashfully at the ground. "Actually, I—"

"Blaine Warbler!"

An excited shout swiftly cut Blaine off midsentence, startling them both. Stumbling slightly over his running shoes—Blaine's hand flew out to catch his arm, steadying him—Kurt turned to see a girl about their age weaving through the crowd toward them, her blonde hair in two bunches behind her ears and a yardstick with several pink and orange balloons taped to one end of it in her hand.

Seeing that she had caught their attention, she waved enthusiastically. "There you are," she declared, smiling dazzlingly. "You weren't where I left you, and since you're not wearing your hair gel, I couldn't follow the delicious smell of fresh raspberries. And you're small, so it took me a while to find you."

Blaine ducked his head, blushing adorably.

The girl didn't notice his embarrassment. "These are the last balloons that we have," she informed Blaine, cheerfully handing him the yardstick. "Coach Sylvester said to tell you that if you accidently pop them again, she's going to make you replace them with your freshly-starched jock strap as a warning to others, and would pay the track team from Carmel to follow you with a boom box playing music from the Chippendale's Vegas show."

Blaine winced, his eyes flitting briefly over at Kurt. "Thanks, Britt," he offered faintly, "I'll be more careful this time."

The girl smiled brightly. "No problem," she chirped. "I have to get back; Puck was trying to get Sam to see how many bagels from the finishers' tent he could fit in his mouth, and I want a chocolate chip one before they're all gone."

And before Kurt could work out if she was kidding or not, Britt scampered off, leaving Kurt, a red-faced Blaine, and a stick of balloons in her wake.

Blaine was still holding Kurt's arm, and he squeezed it gently before letting go and taking a step back. "Sorry about that," he apologized, his mouth twisting sheepishly. "They all mean well, really."

Kurt rubbed his arm lightly, feeling the loss of Blaine's warm hand. "No, it's fine," he assured him. "Although now I think maybe I'll skip the bagels after the race, if it's all the same to you."

Blaine took a deep breath. "Actually," he said slowly, rocking back and forth on his heels, "there's a place just a few blocks away that makes the best bagels in town. I know you'll want to see your family after the race and everything, but…maybe if you have a few minutes, I can buy you one? And a cup of coffee?"

Kurt felt his own cheeks starting to flush, the pleasant twist in his stomach back in full force. "I'd like that," he agreed shyly. "But, how will I find you after the race? Won't there be people everywhere?"

Blaine let out a small huff of laughter, and turned his yardstick around. On the side that had been facing away from Kurt, someone had scrawled a giant_4:30 _on each balloon with a black marker.

"I was going to tell you, before Brittany interrupted," Blaine explained, eyes sparkling. "I'm the leader for the 4:30 pace group."

He reached out again, giving Kurt's shoulder a light squeeze. "So it looks like you're stuck with me for a little while."


	2. I Can't Really Help It

It was just after 7 a.m. when Blaine led Kurt out through the double doors of the gymnasium and down the sloping, grass-covered hill to the stretch of road that lay before the starting line. Hundreds of runners had already ditched their sweatshirts and bags and were spread out around the area; a sprawling mass of color and noise and movement. A number of people were stretching and rubbing their icy limbs, which Kurt could understand, and several others were warming up by sprinting back and forth on a strip of grass near the opposite sidewalk, which he could not—what would possess anyone to run any farther than the excruciatingly long race itself was, frankly, a form of insanity that was utterly beyond him.

As were the choices in apparel visible in the sea of athletes—Kurt had thought that the too-tight, neon spandex he'd seen in the gym was bad, but that was before he'd noticed the plethora of shiny, sleeveless ponchos that he recognized a moment later as garbage bags.

Blaine mercifully interrupted Kurt's fascinated-cum-disturbed staring with a light squeeze on his shoulder. "We're meeting as a group by the tree," he explained, leaning close to Kurt in order to be heard over the crowd and nodding toward a giant oak tree twenty feet in front of them. "Stand next to me?"

His breath was warm on Kurt's rapidly cooling skin, and Kurt nodded more eagerly in response, perhaps, than the question warranted. Blaine didn't seem to notice, smiling appreciatively in return and hoisting his balloon-covered stick in the air as they made their way over to the designated meeting spot.

Kurt had originally thought that the balloons—pink and orange—had been chosen to match Blaine's outfit, but apparently they were serving a purpose beyond color coordination. By the time he and Kurt reached the tree, Blaine's balloons had been spotted by five other runners in the 4:30 pace group—two older men who were clearly friends, and three middle-aged women wearing feather boas and dressed in an assortment of pinks, obviously representing a breast cancer charity. They were followed over the next few minutes by an additional half-dozen runners of varying ages and clothing choices, nearly all of them looking as nervous and excited as Kurt felt. He looked around at the assembled group as Blaine counted heads.

Kurt was the only one who was running alone.

Beside him, Blaine greeted the crowd gathered around them, his shoulder brushing up against Kurt's. "I think we're nearly all here," he announced with a charismatic smile, looking around the ring of people as if there was nothing more fun and exciting than addressing a group of strangers at the crack of dawn.

Kurt smiled.

_Almost _alone.

"All right then, let's get started so that we have plenty of time to line up for the start," Blaine continued in the same frighteningly perky tone. "My name is Blaine, and as you may have noticed,"—he jostled the balloons a bit with a smile—"I'll be leading the 4:30 pace group this morning. Is everyone here in the right spot?"

He paused, looking around, and Kurt followed suit. Most of the group was nodding or smiling, and a few last-minute stragglers were joining the fringes of the original circle, various shades of relief on their faces at having found the right spot.

Blaine went on. "Is anyone here a first time marathoner?" he wanted to know, glancing briefly at Kurt before looking expectantly around at the group again. Kurt ruefully raised his hand along with the majority of the others, including the trio of pink women, a married couple that were around his dad's age, and a short, slim pair of girls that couldn't have been more than a few months out of high school, if that.

They looked particularly taken with Blaine, Kurt noticed, and he felt a slight flare of annoyance that he quickly shoved aside.

Blaine was beaming at them all. "Great!" he praised, animated. "Congratulations, and welcome to the club. It's always good to run with a group for support your first time out, and you're in good hands today, I promise. This is my third year as a pace leader on this course; I led the 5:00 group my first year, and this one my second. One of the original organizers of the race is a friend of the family, though, so I've been running this marathon ever since its inaugural year."

He cleared his throat meaningfully. "Unofficially, of course," he added, voice mockingly stern. "Because this is an 18-and-over event, and we are very strict about checking IDs here, particularly at the post-race party." He winked cheerfully at the pink women, and they giggled helplessly. The teenage girls, too, were still watching Blaine admiringly, and Kurt felt his stomach sink at the idea that maybe he'd been reading the situation all wrong, maybe Blaine hadn't been flirting with him earlier in the gym, maybe he was just a nice, straight guy that flirted with everyone and Kurt was grasping for something that wasn't really there, yet again…

And that was when Blaine slid his hand into Kurt's, lacing their fingers together.

"Those of you with watches,"—he held up their intertwined hands, showing off the sports watch strapped to Kurt's wrist that Finn had cleaned and lent him for the occasion, a new hole punched in its band—"are looking for a speed of 10:14 per mile. If that sounds a few seconds faster than what your pace calculator online told you, that's because it is: there are eight aid stations on this course, and we've built in enough time to slow down and grab some water or Gatorade at half of them, in order to help minimize collisions."

He lowered Kurt's hand, briefly ghosting his thumb over Kurt's palm before letting go.

Kurt tried not to gloat at the teenage girls' obvious disappointed expressions.

Smirking was so unbecoming, after all.

Blaine continued his obviously rehearsed spiel, making eye contact with everyone in turn as he explained that they should feel free to stop for water even when he didn't, and that ending up in front of or behind him was fine ("But not_right_ in front of me, or we'll end up in a cornfield somewhere," he joked sheepishly, making everyone laugh) and that although he couldn't stop if anyone got sick or injured during the race, he was connected via radio to the first aid stations, and could call for a medic if it became necessary.

Kurt only half-listened, paying attention instead to the way Blaine was practically vibrating in place with cold and excitement, and to the light pink blush on his otherwise tanned cheeks. The way he leaned forward almost unconsciously when he was making a point, not even missing a beat when the theme from _Rocky _suddenly came blaring out of the enormous speakers set up on either side of the balloon arch marking the starting line. The automatic-yet-weirdly-natural way he had of seeking out eye contact with everyone who was listening, making each person in the group feel included.

He may have been imagining it, but Kurt was sure that Blaine was looking at him a little more often than at any of the others.

Somehow, despite all of the just-shy-of-blatant staring that Kurt was doing, Blaine nearly managed to take him by surprise when he reached for Kurt's hand a second time.

"…happens to me and I feel I can't lead you effectively anymore," Blaine was saying, "I'll call on the radio for one of our two backup pacers, and I'll be counting on those of you with experience, and the five or six of you wearing watches"—he held up Kurt's wrist again, and Kurt bit back a smile as he gamely showed off Finn's watch—"to keep the whole group more or less on pace until Sam or Santana meets up with you on the course. It's a last resort, but the one time we've had to make a mid-race pacer switch, the transition took less than a mile and the group finished on time. So you guys should be fine."

Lowering their joined hands, Blaine twisted Kurt's wrist painlessly, checking the time on Finn's watch. "We should get in place for the start," he decided, giving Kurt's hand a squeeze in thanks before letting him have it back. "Any questions?"

* * *

Blaine stuck close to Kurt as they moved as a group toward the temporary fencing that was separating the runners from the spectators, his yardstick once again held high in the air over their heads. "So," he asked with a suddenly shy smile, ducking his head as he led Kurt and the others around a shallow ditch near the sidewalk. "How did I do?"

Kurt bit his lip, pretending to think about it while enjoying Blaine's continued attention. "All right, I guess," he admitted, trying to maintain a straight face. "You might want to cheer up a little next time, though; people might think that you don't want to be here or something."

Blaine loud, delighted laughter garnered them several surprised looks, and Kurt felt his cheeks warming pleasantly.

It wasn't until he had stepped around the partition and into the throng of runners that his stomach started to drop unhappily; a gut-twisting, panicky dread that he had always associated with terrible auditions and heavy-lidded dumpsters. "Oh, crap," he muttered breathlessly, gazing at the sea of people around him.

Blaine, who had stepped away briefly to make sure that the whole group was still together, was at his side instantly. "What's wrong?" he wanted to know, watching Kurt's face with big, concerned, Disney Prince eyes.

Kurt couldn't help but smile—Blaine was really _too _ridiculously cute. "Nothing, I'm fine," he promised, glancing around to make sure that nobody else from his group was eavesdropping (they weren't). "It's just…I think I just realized that I have to run a marathon in a few minutes, and it hit me all at once. Silly, right? It's not as if I didn't know what I was doing when I got up this morning."

Blaine's warm hand, which Kurt had missed with a weird, barely perceptible sense of loss since the last time that Blaine had let go of him, gripped Kurt's shoulder gently. "It's not silly," Blaine disagreed earnestly, quirking his lips in a reassuring smile. "This is a huge thing that you're doing, and it's perfectly understandable to have some last-minute nerves. And I can pretty much guarantee you that half of the people in our group are talking to the other half about how freaked out they are right now," he added conspiratorially, indicating the others with a slight tilt of his head.

Kurt sighed, aware that Blaine was probably right but not especially comforted by it. "Were you freaked out before your first marathon?" he asked, realizing as he spoke that he actually really wanted to know the answer.

Blaine scoffed self-deprecatingly. "I was too young and stupid to know what I was getting myself into," he told Kurt wryly, cheeks flushing in that unfairly attractive way that seemed to be directly connected to Kurt's heart rate. "Obviously it worked out, since I'm still running, but I had a tendency to throw myself into things wholeheartedly without thinking about them when I was in high school."

He bit his lip, and Kurt raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I'm following you," he deadpanned mildly. "Could you be a little more cryptic?"

Blaine laughed. "I know, I'm sorry," he apologized with an embarrassed grin. "I'd give you some examples of what I mean, but I'm kind of trying to impress you enough that you don't change your mind about having coffee with me later, and any tales of me accidentally getting people fired from The Gap or making friends with a teenage male stripper might work against me in that endeavor."

Kurt was listening with no small amount of amusement, and it was his turn to turn lightly pink at Blaine's admission. "Sounds like a story or two for another time," he remarked breathlessly, batting his eyelashes (and noticing with gratification how the simple gesture made Blaine inhale sharply). "Or, we're about to spend around 4 ½ hours together; maybe I can needle it out of you by the finish line. I can be very persuasive."

Blaine's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "I don't doubt it," he agreed, his eyes dropping momentarily to Kurt's mouth. "But my embarrassing stories—that you won't be hearing today, by the way—aside, all I meant to say is that you seem much more together and practical than I was at fifteen, and that I think you'll be great out there.

"Don't worry, though," he added, smiling at Kurt's disappointed pout, "I promise to keep you otherwise entertained." He glanced around furtively before leaning in toward Kurt, eyes shining flirtatiously. "Play your cards right, and I might even let you pick the music."

Kurt shifted his weight onto his back leg, wrapping an arm around his waist. "No headphones allowed on the course, I seem to recall someone saying earlier," he reminded Blaine archly, smiling just enough to assure Blaine that he was only teasing. "Unless…if you've been controlling the music coming out of the speakers this whole time"—Kurt nodded toward the oversized sound system by the starting line, which was blasting _Pump Up the Jam_ far louder than was appropriate or necessary—"then I don't think we can be friends anymore. At least, not until you reconsider some of your life choices."

Blaine's smile slowly grew wider. "Not a late '80s fan, then? I can work around that," he replied, mimicking Kurt's posture seemingly without noticing. "My nickname back in New York is 'The Human Jukebox'; I'm sure I can find_some_thing you like."

Kurt stared. "You're a singer?" he demanded, his voice hitching slightly midsentence.

Blaine nodded enthusiastically. "Mostly just karaoke and student productions this semester," he explained, "but I was in an a cappella group last year, and I used to sing lead vocals in my high school's show choir. And at theme parks during school vacations, but I'll deny it if you tell anyone."

Kurt had stopped listening at 'show choir'. "How are you even real?" he mused out loud, not even bothering to keep the note of appreciation out of his voice.

Blaine blinked, letting out a small, sheepish laugh and letting his gaze fall to the ground. "Well, I-I, uh…" he stammered, sounding both flattered speechless and embarrassed by Kurt's praise, and he raised his hand to rub the back of his neck.

The early morning sunbeams glinted off of the face of his watch.

His _watch._ Kurt rolled his eyes, marveling at his own obliviousness. "Of _course_you're wearing a Garmin," he scoffed, more to himself than to Blaine, whose eyes had snapped back up to Kurt's face at the exclamation. "You'd have to have one, in order to keep track of the pace. But—"

He paused. "Then, why did you need me to stand next to you earlier?" he asked, slightly puzzled. "You could have just used your own watch, if you needed a prop."

This time, it was Blaine's turn to huff disbelievingly. When Kurt continued to stare questioningly, however, his gaze grew soft. "If I'd used my own, I wouldn't have had an excuse to hold your hand," he pointed out gently, meeting Kurt's eyes tentatively. "Which was totally forward and an abuse of my position, I agree, but—"

"Blaine," Kurt cut him off, smiling, not entirely certain if Blaine's self-tirade was in earnest or not. "It's—I didn't mind. I liked it, actually."

Blaine's expression went from clouded to hopeful so quickly that Kurt would have laughed at him under any other circumstances. "Yeah?" he asked quietly, stepping a little closer to Kurt in order to let a group of people squeeze by behind him.

He didn't step back when they were gone, and Kurt swallowed. "Yeah," he confirmed. "I mean, once I got past the sweaty palms—dripping, Blaine, honestly—and you cutting off all of the circulation to my fingers, I suppose it wasn't too bad…"

Blaine was laughing even before Kurt had finished. "Is that how it's going to be, then?" he wanted to know, gazing at Kurt with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "I swear, Kurt, you—"

Whatever he was going to swear, however, was cut off abruptly as the music pouring out of the speakers was mercifully turned off, replaced by the muffled scuffling of a microphone being turned on and passed over.

"_Welcome, runners, to this year's annual Central Ohio Marathon_!" a deep voice announced a moment later. The crowd around them went wild, clapping and cheering and whistling, and Kurt swallowed harshly, suddenly tense and uneasy all over again. The race was about to begin.

Without looking, Kurt reached for Blaine's hand.

Blaine squeezed back soothingly.


	3. The Sound of Your Sweet Voice

In the six months of preparation and training Kurt had gone through, both alone and with his charity team, in building up toward the marathon, he had imagined how it would feel to cross the starting line dozens of times: Exciting. Nervewracking. Triumphant. Overwhelming.

The last one was probably the closest to the truth. On his previous runs, even the excruciatingly long ones toward the end of his training, staring the run had been the easy part—it was usually the last two or three miles where the wheels had started to come off and his form had begun to fall apart. This time, however, it was the opposite—the race had barely begun and Kurt's breathing, already too close to hyperventilating for comfort, wasn't slowing down and settling into a rhythm, like it usually did. His stride felt choppy and graceless, and even his joints were rebelling, every ache and twinge he'd diligently treated with ice and rest and gentle stretching suddenly ghosting through his limbs, phantom pains reminding him of how easily his body could come apart.

It was more than a little disconcerting. And he still had over 25 miles to go.

As if she'd read his mind, one of the middle-aged women in pink called up to Blaine, who was positioned at the front and center of their sixteen-person group, just steps to Kurt's left. "Should my knees already be sore?" she wanted to know, her good-natured smile and the teasing laughter from her two friends taking the edge out of the question. "I feel like that can't be a good sign."

Blaine, who had been splitting his time between glancing at his watch and waving to the intermittent groups of spectators along the road waiting to see their friends or family, beamed with delight at the opportunity to be helpful. "That depends," he called back cheerfully, turning his head in Kurt's direction just enough that his voice would carry. "How were they this week? Were they injured at all during training?"

When the Pink Lady answered in the negative—"They're just old"—his smile grew brighter, almost causing Kurt to trip over a pothole in the road. "I wouldn't worry yet," Blaine assured her, seemingly oblivious to Kurt's near-plight. "Racing feels different than training—I don't know if it's adrenaline or nerves or something else, but your body can always tell that it's not just a normal day when you start a marathon, even right at the beginning." He smiled reassuringly. "I always feel like mine's trying to preserve itself by making the first two miles awful enough that I want to stop running," he admitted. "But it's always better by the third mile. Let me know if it gets any worse, but if it hasn't given you any trouble before now, I think it's just adjusting."

A few seconds later, the sandwich board marking the first mile of the race came into sight, and Blaine pointed to it with a shout. "One mile down!" he cheered excitedly. "How is everybody feeling?"

Kurt opened his mouth to answer—and paused. Somehow without him noticing, his breathing had evened out, his limbs back to moving automatically and with their usual semblance of grace.

He felt _good._

Hmm.

* * *

The first aid station came into sight just after the third mile marker, and by then Kurt was ready for it.

"Anyone who needs a drink should stay to the right," Blaine reminded them all, shifting away from Kurt and toward the left side of the road. "There's water and blue Gatorade, and anyone hoping to win the 4:30 Group Informal Bluest Tongue Contest should be aware that you're all racing for second place—my gels are blueberry flavored, so I plan on trouncing you all."

Kurt rolled his eyes at Blaine's strange enthusiasm, but smiled as he reached the aid station, taking a cup of water from a pretty blonde volunteer and drinking it as quickly as he could before tossing the crumpled cup toward the trash can and slowly reeling Blaine and the other non-drinkers back in.

"…wear off after a few minutes," Blaine was explaining to one of the other runners as Kurt settled back into his former spot, a man who was also running his first marathon and whose sneakers were adhering slightly to the ground because of the large quantities of Gatorade spilled onto the road. "You'll pick up enough dust and dirt in the next quarter mile or so to keep them from sticking. I'd definitely avoid stepping on any gel wrappers you see on the road, though—those things can stick to you for _miles, _and if you step on a full one that somebody accidentally dropped? Disaster."

He shuddered, and Kurt stifled a laugh.

The roads had cleared somewhat since the beginning of the race—although there were still runners visible in front of and behind the group, the number of spectators waiting by the side of the road to cheer for them was drastically reduced, and the crowd on the pavement itself had thinned enough that Kurt was no longer worried about tripping over anyone else. Instead, he let his eyes wander as he took in the unfamiliar neighborhood around him—farmhouses, mostly, with fields of grain and livestock visible in the distance, separated by rows of equipment, dusty driveways with basketball hoops and pickup trucks, small wooded enclosures with—

Kurt's eyes snapped forward. "Oh my god," he breathed without thinking, mortified by what he had just seen: three men (obviously part of the marathon, given their clothing and sneakers) that had been relieving themselves in the nearby grove of trees—their pale, bare asses clearly visible to anyone who happened to look in their direction.

"Kurt?" Blaine asked, watching him with concern. "Is everything okay?"

Kurt coughed, looking down at his feet rather than meeting Blaine's worried gaze. "Fine, I'm fine," he insisted, not wanting to inform everyone who was listening—which seemed to be most of the group, if the sudden lack of ambient conversation was any indication—of what he'd just witnessed. "I was just…surprised. By something I saw. But I'm fine."

Blaine furrowed his brow for a moment, before putting the pieces together and scoffing. "Let me guess," he said, not without amusement. "Someone couldn't make it to the porta-potties at Mile 5?"

Kurt nodded in confirmation, and Blaine nodded back knowingly. "That definitely happens," he commiserated. "I always think we should have more available than we do, if only to prevent accidental mooning." Without waiting for Kurt's response—which probably would have been sputtering over the fact that Blaine, in his skintight spandex that was showing his _really nice_ posterior to excellent advantage, was talking about mooning—Blaine raised his voice to address the whole group. "As someone involved with the marathon, I can't officially endorse anyone going off-road for any reason, and invite you to make use of the four sets of portable bathrooms available along our lovely, scenic course."

He paused. "Unofficially, and as someone who has also gotten an accidental eyeful of runners 'taking care of business' during a race, I'd advise you to pick a good hiding spot away from the road if you find yourself needing one, and caution you that anyone caught peeing on the side of a freestanding garage will be unceremoniously disqualified from today's events."

The last warning was given with a cheeky grin, setting off a flurry of speculation as to just how and why Blaine knew that. Blaine merely winked at Kurt, who couldn't help but smile back.

* * *

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Blaine announced a few minutes after the group had passed the second aid station, "for those of you who don't have your own watches, we have officially hit the One Hour mark!"

Kurt let out a grateful sigh at the announcement—he wasn't feeling tired or burnt out yet, and it was a relief to know that they were making headway in the amount of mileage they had to cover before he did.

The reaction from the rest of the group was equally tepid, but Blaine remained unfazed. "Everyone's saving their energy, I guess," he quipped with a slight smile. "I can respect that. How is everyone feeling? Are we sweating yet?"

Kurt grimaced at the reminder. The light, cool breeze that had been blowing for the past few miles meant that the sweat on his neck, hands, and arms was evaporating almost as quickly as it formed, but the underarms and spine of his shirt had long since grown warm and damp, and he'd been wiping what felt like the same layer of sweat from his forehead and cheekbones since the fourth mile marker.

Of course, his discomfort was nothing compared to what Blaine must have been feeling, given the rivets of sweat visible at his hairline and the large, wet patches of shirt sticking to his skin at the collar and underarms.

The idea that Blaine might have to take his shirt off and finish the race topless briefly occurred to Kurt, and he was suddenly very glad to have such a good excuse for the blush he could feel spreading over his cheeks.

Blaine noticed Kurt looking at him, and grinned. "You picked a good spot," he told Kurt, wiping his forehead with the back of his free hand and haphazardly brushing a wayward curl out of his face. "By the time we're done, anybody running directly behind me is going to wish that they'd brought an umbrella."

Kurt scrunched his face sympathetically. "I hate sweating," he admitted, noting absently that they'd just passed the marker for Mile Six. "It is _not _a good look for me—I do all of my exercising at home when my roommates are out, just to preserve the illusion that I was born without sweat glands."

Blaine looked amused. "Uh, Kurt, I hate to be the one to point out the obvious," he hedged, before proceeding to do just that: "But you're running a marathon. In public."

A few of the closer runners in their group laughed, and Kurt rolled his eyes. "I know _that,_" he acknowledged, blushing again, "but this is something I'm doing for my dad. I don't—it's not what I consider to be _my _exercise, if that makes any sense. Running, for me, is more in pursuit of a particular goal; it isn't really about health or fitness."

"It certainly isn't hurting, though," Blaine remarked with a smile, before visibly wincing. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—not that I've been, I mean…" he stammered.

Kurt raised an eyebrow, and Blaine sighed, defeated. "I may have _observed_, in an almost entirely gentlemanly fashion, that you have really nice legs," he admitted. "Among other things. And this was before I found out that we'd be running together; I don't want you to think that I'm—but I couldn't exactly_unnotice_ it once I'd noticed it, and…I'm just going to stop embarrassing myself and making you uncomfortable. I'm sorry."

Kurt, flushing deeply, was torn between flattery and amusement at Blaine's rueful confession. "Well," he said slowly, not missing the way that Blaine's head jerked back in his direction at the sound of his voice, "I suppose I can't really blame you, can I? I mean, it's not as if these pants leave a great deal to the imagination."

Blaine smiled guiltily. "They really don't," he lamented. "Brittany, the girl you met earlier? One time she followed me around for half an hour, throwing coins at me, because her girlfriend had made some snide comment about my running tights being so snug that she could bounce a quarter off of my ass. It wasn't one of my better days."

By the time Kurt had stopped laughing, Blaine looking put-upon and blushing sheepishly, the seventh mile marker was fading in the distance, and Kurt had privately resolved to send Brittany a fruit basket or a bouquet of flowers at the first available opportunity.

* * *

Two hours and twenty-three minutes into the race, the cramps started.

What had begun as a slight stitch in Kurt's left side at the half marathon mark ("We're more than halfway done!" Blaine had proclaimed with so much enthusiasm that Kurt had found himself wondering which one of them, exactly, had been the cheerleader in high school) suddenly became a sharp, stabbing pain under his lung, as harsh and unexpected as if someone had slid a knife between his ribs. Kurt couldn't help the pained gasp that flew out of his mouth as they rounded a corner, and he gingerly pressed his fingers into his abdomen, trying to relieve the piercing ache.

Blaine was at his side almost instantly. "Breathe into it, that's it," he advised gently, eyeing Kurt's hands. "Cramp?"

Kurt nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Blaine hummed soothingly. "Keep breathing with your diaphragm and pressing into it, just like you're doing. Do you need to slow down?"

Kurt shook his head, blinking back the tears stinging his eyes as he breathed through gritted teeth—slowing down would mean leaving the group, leaving_Blaine, _and while he was planning on finishing the race either way, he didn't really _want _to do it alone.

Especially anymore.

"Okay," Blaine was saying quietly, rubbing Kurt's back lightly with his right hand. "Okay. Twist slightly in my direction if you can, all right? Just a little. Do you want me to distract you?"

Kurt glanced over at Blaine, surprised. He wasn't the first one in the group to get a muscle cramp by a long shot, and while Kurt had heard Blaine dispense the same advice to everyone else with just as much kindness and sympathy, he'd always left the job of distracting the unfortunate victim to whomever he or she was running with.

Of course, Kurt was running alone, effectively negating that option, but still… "Careful," Kurt joked breathily, his voice thin and laced with pain as he tried to turn into the cramp, digging his fingers harder into the muscle. "People might think you're playing favorites."

Blaine's smile was gorgeous. "Half of them think we're secretly dating," he informed Kurt, eyes shining with amusement. "I'm happy to correct them if you want me to, but I think it's sort of sweet how invested they are in our relationship."

Kurt let out a huff of laughter, wincing as it aggravated his side. "Well then," he said absently, "distract away, Boyfriend."

There was a brief pause, and then Kurt saw Blaine start out of the corner of his eye. "Right, distraction," Blaine repeated as breathlessly as Kurt had sounded before, the smile evident in his voice. "Sorry. Okay. Do you remember how earlier, I told you that I had made friends with a teenage stripper when I was still in high school?"

Kurt rolled his eyes—because obviously—and Blaine smiled indulgently. "Well, anyway, in order to hide his job from his parents…"

Kurt continued to breathe deeply, massaging the spot under his ribcage as he listened with interest to Blaine's story about his friend's fake job at a Dairy Queen, and the ridiculously over the top pandemonium that had ensued when the family had gone there for ice cream to celebrate his little sister's birthday. Blaine was a fantastic storyteller, gesturing emphatically and pausing in all the right places for dramatic effect, and Kurt noted with amusement that he'd unknowingly drawn in the majority of the 4:30 group, who had clustered around the two of them and were hanging on Blaine's every word.

"And then the State Board of Health tried to intervene, but the town is so staunchly anti-government that the residents all kicked up a huge fuss and lawyers got involved, and eventually the Board just gave up. So now, there is a single Dairy Queen franchise in the entire world where body glitter is an official part of the uniform, and the citizens consider swallowing sparkles with their sprinkles and cones part of their duty as the antiestablishment," Blaine finished with a triumphant smile at Kurt.

And immediately tripped over a rock in surprise as the entire group burst into applause.

Kurt, his cramp having mercifully faded during the part of the story where Blaine's friend had nearly blown his cover by moving too quickly in his tear-away pants, was able to catch his arm to keep him from falling.

* * *

Despite Kurt insisting that he was fine after the ache in his side had dissipated, Blaine continued to check on him every mile, turning his bright, earnest gaze to him after each mile marker. Secretly, Kurt sort of enjoyed Blaine's somewhat overprotective attention, but rolled his eyes the fourth time it happened anyway.

"I'm _fine," _he stressed, unable to keep the look of fond exasperation off of his face. "If I'm not all right, I will tell you—okay, Dad?"

Blaine looked slightly sheepish, but kept smiling. "I know, I'm sorry," he apologized. "You're invincible."

Kurt raised his chin showily. "Of course I am," he sniffed haughtily, making Blaine laugh. "And don't you forget it."

Blaine continued to look over at Kurt after that, but Kurt was kind enough not to bring it to his attention.

* * *

Around mile 21, the sensation of invincibility had thoroughly worn off, and Kurt's hips, knees, and feet had progressed from feeling incredibly tired to feeling uncomfortably sore. His shoulders and arms felt tighter and heavier as well, and while he was still doing well enough to keep running at the relatively easy pace Blaine had set, it wouldn't have taken much more than an offer of a comfortable chair—and maybe a slice of cheesecake—to entice him off of the course and out of the race.

So it was probably a good thing, if a little disappointing, that nobody seemed to be offering.

Two members of the group had slowed down and fallen behind over the previous two miles, leaving Blaine with fourteen runners. He had assured them both times that people coming and going was perfectly normal but, sensing perhaps that the remaining 4:30 runners were growing weary and somewhat dispirited with nearly an hour of racing left to go, he'd begun reemploying his considerable powers of distraction to keep their minds off of the task at hand.

After another story about his stripper high school best friend ("It took his English teacher seven months to figure out that his Yoda impression wasn't some weird, verbal manifestation of his dyslexia"), they switched to the places game, which was successful for approximately seven minutes, when one of the older men toward the back of the group played 'Iraq' off of Kurt's 'Hawaii'. When a third of a mile had gone by and still nobody could think of a location that began with the letter Q, the effort was abandoned.

As were all the games and stories, in fact—the next distraction came in the form of the middle-aged blonde woman running behind Kurt, when she unexpectedly burst into tears.

"I'm s-sorry," she sniffed as half the group turned to her in surprise, wiping her cheeks roughly even as she continued to cry. "I don't know why I—I don't know where this is c-coming from."

Urging them all to keep running, Blaine dropped back a few feet, maneuvering himself next to her. "Hey, it's all right," Kurt heard him murmur reassuringly, "you're going to be all right. It's Marissa, right?"

There was a pause, and Kurt assumed that Marissa had nodded when Blaine began speaking again in the same utterly soothing tone of voice. "You were the one who ran the Chicago Marathon a few years ago, weren't you? I'm guessing this probably didn't happen then, huh?"

Marissa choked out a rebuttal, and Kurt glanced at his watch just in case Blaine was too preoccupied to keep track.

"That's awesome that you're doing another one, Marissa," Blaine was saying. "And I promise, this is totally normal—I'm actually surprised we made it this far without any spontaneous tears. In fact…can you keep a secret?"

There was another pause, and Kurt strained his ears, shamelessly eavesdropping as Blaine spoke more quietly:

"I was completely fine after my first marathon until about 8pm, and then, out of nowhere, I started shaking and crying and didn't stop for almost ten minutes," he admitted. "And I was boarding at an all-boys prep school at the time, so this was in front of nearly three dozen high school boys, too. By the time I calmed down, they'd wrapped me in about thirty blazers, and were bickering over whether pouring tea down my throat would help or make things worse."

Kurt heard Marissa's muffled laughter, which he tried not to echo, lest he get caught listening. Still, the mental picture of teenage Blaine, buried in an entire rack's worth of fancy uniform jackets, was a priceless one.

Dwelling on the image, Kurt nearly missed it when Blaine started speaking again, in an even lower voice than before.

"…going out on a first date after the race, and I'm a little nervous about how my body is going to act," he was confiding in Marissa, and Kurt breathed as silently as he could, desperate to catch every word. "Usually I'm fine after a race, but the blazer incident was not one of my more attractive moments, and sometimes I'm just exhausted, or my muscles lock up and I have to walk around without bending my knees like a duck or something. I'm just hoping to make it through coffee and bagels without looking so ridiculous that he says no when I ask him for a second date."

A car horn honking at the runners was loud enough to cover Kurt's sharp intake of breath, for which Kurt was grateful. It also covered up half of a no-longer-teary Marissa's reply, but Kurt could surmise the general idea when he heard Blaine sigh and explain that, "I probably should have, but…I didn't want to miss my chance, I guess. I didn't even think about how I'd be sweaty and emotional and probably smell pretty bad after so much running—I just…saw the opportunity to spend some time with a really amazing guy, and I jumped on it."

Blaine paused, and, struggling to keep up the correct pace while holding his breath, so did Kurt.

"It's been pointed out to me before that all the romantic ideas in my head don't usually translate well into reality," Blaine added finally. "But you stopped crying, so maybe it isn't _that _bad?"

Marissa laughed, either at the question or the hopeful tone in which it was asked. Whatever her reply was, however, Kurt didn't hear it, lost in his own thoughts.

* * *

It wasn't that Kurt was going to _die. _With one dead parent, and a second whom had nearly followed years later, Kurt had always found hyperbolic teenagers on television and in real life wailing about how their _life _was _over _a tad histrionic, and only let the phrase slip himself during extensively extenuating circumstances.

However.

Even if Kurt knew that he wasn't going to die, it didn't mean he was exaggerating when Blaine asked him how he was feeling after the 24th mile marker, and Kurt replied tiredly that every single bone in his legs from the kneecaps down felt shattered. "And if I eat another gel…" he insinuated, delicately avoiding the words themselves—one of the first-timers in the group, the man with the previously-sticky shoes, had pulled over to the side of the road around mile 22½ to hurl, ending Blaine's conversation with Marissa and resulting in a flurry of radio conversation with various course officials that had only ended when the 4:45 pacer reported that he'd finished puking and had joined her group. Kurt's stomach had been sloshing uncomfortably by that point, too, and he'd gratefully replaced his too-sweet gels with both water and Gatorade at the final aid station.

Blaine winced sympathetically. "Sounds about right," he allowed, tugging his sweaty shirt away from his chest to air it out. "The good news is that this is about as bad as it gets—things can only go uphill from here."

One of the Pink Ladies cried out in dismay. "Oh God, no more hills, please!" she protested, and Blaine's resulting sputter drew laughter from the group.

"It was a _metaphor,_" he stressed, eyes crinkling as he began to laugh as well. "No more hills, I promise." Looking over at Kurt, he pouted. "You're going to get me in trouble if you keep doing that," he warned faux-sternly, no sign of the nerves he'd mentioned to Marissa betraying him.

Kurt primly raised an eyebrow. "_I _merely answered your question," he pointed out reasonably. "You were the one who employed a metaphor that was, under the circumstances, poorly chosen."

Blaine's expression melted into a smile. "Fair point," he acknowledged. "Okay then," he said, raising his voice again, "how about this—we're less than two miles away from the finish line, and the road is _completely flat_ for the rest of the race! In less than twenty minutes, you'll have foil blankets and finisher's medals, and can lay down anywhere you want for as long as you like. Sound good?"

The group mumbled their drained, but relieved, acquiescence. One of the two teenage girls cheered with more enthusiasm than should have been allowed after four hours of continuous movement, and Kurt hated her immediately on general principle. Blaine, however, just laughed. "That's the spirit!" he cheered back. "We can do it, everyone. Just keep swimming, just keep swimming…"

Kurt let out a huff of laughter. "I'm not even a little surprised that you like Dory," he offered in explanation when Blaine looked over at him, eyes sparkling and expectant. "I am completely unshocked by this turn of events."

Blaine's smile grew. "_Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming,"_ he sang back, fluttering his eyelashes in Kurt's direction. "I promised you a song earlier, didn't I?" he reminded Kurt, before proceeding to annihilate every possible law of biomechanics by singing exactly the song Kurt knew he'd pick after the _Finding Nemo _references while simultaneously running a marathon:

_"Somewhere, Beyond the Sea,_

_Somewhere, waiting for me,_

_My lover stands on golden sands, and watches the ships,_

_That go sailing…"_

Kurt's stomach started to twist more pleasantly than before, and he took several deep breaths as he continued to run, letting Blaine's unfairly gorgeous voice wash over him.

_Just keep swimming, _indeed_._

* * *

The finish line was so close that Kurt could practically taste it.

The 25th mile marker was well behind them, and Blaine had promised that the final sandwich board was just around the next curve of the road, and the giant balloon arch signifying the end of the race a mere .2 miles beyond that. Kurt's energy had, inexplicably, picked back up, and it was with more enthusiasm than he'd felt for anything in at least an hour that he began scanning the road ahead of him, searching the thin but respectably-sized crowds for his dad and Carole, who had promised to be there to cheer him on.

Weirdly, it was Blaine who spotted them first. "Kurt, is that one for you?" he asked, pointing several yards ahead of them and to the left. Kurt looked, and saw what had attracted Blaine's gaze—Finn was standing on the sidewalk in all his six-foot-fifteen glory, holding a yellow poster board above his head that read_GO KURT GO! _while squinting at the oncoming runners. Their parents were by his side, Burt's arm wrapped around Carole as they, too, looked for Kurt among the runners trickling in toward the finish line.

Kurt made it easy for them. "Dad!" he shouted, suddenly feeling small and sixteen all over again, waving at his dad during his first of only a handful of football games. "Over here!"

Three heads snapped in his direction at the sound of his voice. A giant, cacophonous shout went up when they spotted him, and they waved excitedly as Kurt's group approached and passed them. "_That's my boy!_" Kurt heard Burt yell as he rounded the corner and ran out of sight, sneaking one more fleeting glance back as Finn waved his sign so high in the air that he ended up smacking a few leaves from a nearby tree branch.

Despite what Blaine had said about crying being a totally normal part of the marathon experience, Kurt blinked back his tears. Blotchy wasn't a good look on him.

And it would be a terrible shame to trip and break a leg at the very end of the race, just because his eyes were too watery to see the road.

The final mile marker, as promised, was about a hundred yards down the street, and Kurt could see the finish line—and hear the familiar, awful music—barely a quarter of a mile away. "This is it, everyone!" Blaine shouted to be heard over the sudden onslaught of noise, for here the spectators were thick on the ground, and other members of the group were beginning to spot their friends and family among the crowds and react in much the same way that Kurt had. "If you have a final kick, use it now! Anyone who's trying to finish under 4:30, stay in front of me!"

The last two minutes of the race were a blur of color and noise. Fueled by a heady mixture of exhaustion, excitement, and the euphoria of being _done, finally, _Kurt ran with everything he had left, the roaring cheers and the arch of balloons getting closer and closer as he picked up speed. He passed a pace clock, counting the seconds off in giant yellow numbers; ran past a photographer with an enormous camera, kneeling on the edge of the road and rapidly taking pictures of everyone as they approached the finish line; and, at last, ran under the arch itself and over the timing mats, limbs shaking badly as he slowed to a walk on the pavement, clicking the button on his watch to stop the timer at _4:29:07._

He had just run a marathon.

The flow of the runners finishing the race and limping through the finishers' chute carried Kurt along, and almost before he knew it someone had given him a thin metallic blanket to wrap around his shoulders like a cape, and a smiling man in a track jacket was draping a medal around his neck. Moving out of the way, Kurt lifted the medal off of his chest and stared at it, almost unable to believe that it was really there; that it was really _his._

"Kurt!"

A familiar voice called out his name, and Kurt turned back to see Blaine coming toward him from the finishers' chute, the yardstick gone and a tired but earnest smile on his sweaty face.

Kurt didn't hesitate—the second that Blaine was within in reach, Kurt threw his arms around him, knocking the wind out of him before he quickly recovered and hugged Kurt back just as tightly. Kurt's sore muscles were screaming in protest, but he didn't move, eagerly clinging to Blaine's solid warmth as if he belonged there. Blaine's hands twisted into Kurt's blanket, pulling him in and holding him closer, and they stayed there for a long moment.

At last, Blaine pulled back with a sigh. "You're a marathoner now," he told Kurt with a grin. "How does it feel?"

Kurt grimaced. "_Painful,_" he informed Blaine, who laughed gently and continued to smile.

"Your family probably wants to see you," he remembered. "You should go find them. I can wait for you here, or back in the gym?"

He looked at Kurt, a hopeful, hesitant expression on his face that made Kurt want to hug him all over again. "I'll meet you back here as soon as I'm done," he promised. "And…"

Kurt blushed, suddenly a little shy, but Blaine's inquisitive look gave him courage. "If you were worried about…you know. Us being kind of offputtingly disgusting right now," he offered cautiously. "Maybe you'd let me take you out to dinner, once we're both back in New York?"

Blaine's expression was an almost amusing mixture of delight and mortification. "You…did you hear _every_thing I said back there?" he asked, sounding unsure about which answer he'd prefer.

So Kurt didn't bother. Instead, he leaned in, kissing Blaine softly, but meaningfully, on the lips.

Pulling away a moment later, Kurt smiled. "I sort of think you're amazing, too," he admitted. "And my dad is probably wondering what happened to me, so I should go. Wait for me here?"

Blaine's gaze was sweet and open, happiness radiating from him as he smiled dazzlingly at Kurt. "I won't move a muscle," he promised.

"Even if I could right now."


End file.
